Leave Your Heart at the Door
by Vice President Bird
Summary: Leaving your friends and lovers behind is not easy. Especially when you might be leaving them forever.
1. Prologue

At around 2:00, I decide that it's morning. I ease my way out of the baby blue flannel blanket that Max must have draped over me while I was sleeping. I spend a few minutes coming to my senses, shivering slightly in the faint chill of the room. Did I forget to pay the heating bill again? I get up to check on Max, who must have gone to bed without me, and I realize something. I'm not in my apartment. I'm still at Gregory House.

TWO WEEKS EARLIER

"Damnit!" Chloe's lighter spat sparks. "This is, like, the fifth time! There is no juice in this thing!" She looked at me, wide-eyed, plaintive. "You got a light? Like, maybe some matches?"

"Sorry, Chloe. I don't smoke," I said. She cursed into the sleeve of her orange parka and dejectedly put her unlit cigarette back into its pack. We stood there in silence for a while, entertaining ourselves by watching the puffs of steam our breath made in the chill December air. A muffled tone emanated from Chloe's pocket. She pulled out her cell phone, which was ringing madly, and after checking the screen, gave me a shrug.

"It's from my boss." She darted off to stand a little ways away; I guess she thought I couldn't hear her if she put on a little distance. For a best friend, she couldn't read me at all. I snuck a little closer to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"…Let me know if you need any more favors," she was saying. I gave a sharp little gasp, which I hoped to the powers that be was muffled by my scarf. She wouldn't… would she? I leaned closer. "No, no, I can't make an appointment- what's that? It's my job, because I'm a secretary? Well…" I stopped listening. I'd heard enough, and what I'd heard had been suspiciously telling. _Chloe, you little sneak!_  
The next few days passed without much worry. Chloe got a raise. I kept quiet about her phone conversation, and about how she was suspiciously friendly with the boss. I didn't have to say anything. Our coworkers were coming to their own conclusions.

"I bet she's an undercover cop who wants to bust the boss for never refilling the coffee maker," a male coworker said. His name escaped me; it just wasn't important.

"With the amount of coffee you drink, that could be considered cruel and unusual punishment," another guy deadpanned. I smiled thinly over the rim of my paper cup, but neither man saw it. They continued doing whatever caffeine-buzzed, sleep-deprived twenty-somethings do when the workday is about to end. I was bored of it already. I stood there by the coffee maker, watching the clock. One minute. Two minutes. I yawned. I picked at my nail polish; pale pink, Chloe's idea. "It'll be a nice change," she said. What she meant was that she found me boring, wanted to spice me up. And she was right for doing it, I guess. I'm about as interesting as my bland cubicle job.

"…See ya." One of the guys saluted his friend and left the office. I glanced at the clock again. I forgot my watch, I realized. It's out on the fire escape, where I had stepped outside to get a little fresh air earlier that day. Maybe I could grab it, then use the fire escape for its intended purpose, minus the fire part… Why did I leave my watch on the fire escape? I was oddly disoriented. It's like a video game, as my nephew would say, pushing up his round wire-rimmed glasses. The watch is a special item, and I can only leave the office once I have it. I snorted, drained my cold coffee, discarded the paper cup. Ducked through a window and jumped out onto the little chain-link landing. My watch was just sitting there on the perforated metal floor.

"What the hell," I said to myself, picking it up. "Why'd I just…" God, I was tired. I was done with work, forever maybe. I wanted to see my boyfriend. I wanted to see Max. As I was starting down the narrow iron stairs, my watch slipped through my fingers, falling two stories and hitting the ground with a sickening emcrack /emof metal and glass. "Fuck!" I practically ran down the fire escape, scrabbling and swearing quietly, searching for my watch. It lay on the concrete, inches from the curb, in the trash can corner, scratched,dented, and bleeding broken glass from the face. My heart sunk. That watch had been a birthday gift from Max.

As I sat on the subway, I realized I hadn't had a single conscious thought since I broke my watch. I'd walked to the subway terminal in a daze, caressing the shards of my totaled timepiece. I'd missed my train. Waited for another. Got on at the last minute. Only my barest instinct had propelled me. Without it, I thought, I would have just stood under the fire escape. I would've just stood there forever, until I died…

I woke with a start. Oh, shit! I must've missed my stop! I got up, clinging to the steel bars of my seat, and peered out the window. The car was empty, except for one man in a khaki trench coat, who was staring at the floor, his hat concealing his face.

"We are approaching the last stop on this train line. Once we have arrived, please disembark," a bodiless voice said. The subway slowed, and I noticed that it was aboveground. Outside my window, I could see a dark forest, mist clotting the spaces between the skeletal trees. The train stopped. "We have arrived at Gregory House. As this is the last stop, please disembark here." My neighbor, the hat-wearing man, looked at me.

"This is the last stop, miss. I'd advise you to spend the night at Gregory House; there's nowhere else for miles," he said. I nodded and numbly followed him out the doors and down a forest path. The trees thinned, and we arrived in… a graveyard? Mist lay thick among the headstones, grey against the soupy night. Piercing the gloom was a faint glow of light, as if from the windows of a house. My vision cleared, and there we stood, the faceless man and I, bone-tired and marveling in the faint glimmer of the gilded sign that told us we had arrived at Gregory House.


	2. The First Night: Unfamiliar Shores

My companion turned to look at me. I noticed with a chill of fear that he has no face to speak of, and instead, a brown clay mask with three holes roughly arranged in the shape of two eyes and a mouth. I swallowed a scream, pushing it down by discreetly laying a hand over my mouth. I hoped to the powers that be that he didn't notice it. If he did, he showed no sign.

"Well? What are you waiting for?" he asked me.

"Aren't you going to… open the door, or something?" I said. The man shook his head.

"Sorry, miss. I just think it's better if you open it, after all, I've done it before." I was suspicious about him. About opening the door, which seemed to be a ritual of some kind. With a tangle of nerves constricting my lungs, I slipped my fingers into the burnished ring of the door knocker. I lifted it and then dropped it. It hit the dark wood with a hollow thump. I heard the faint sound of approaching footsteps. They grew louder and louder. A key scraped the lock. The doorknob turned with a rusty scratch, and the oaken portal swung open grandly. Behind it was another horror, which sent a thrill of discomfort down my spine. It was an individual who was most certainly not human.

In fact, it looked more like a giant, bipedal rat than anything else. It wore a pale orchid housecoat over a red-and-black striped sweater. Its fur was grey and it had a stringy mop of fading hair which just brushed its lavender eyes. One eye appraised me, then darted to the man I was with, while the other stared straight ahead.  
"So, my friend, who is this young lady?" the rat asked my companion in an old man's voice. I flinched. My guide put a hand on my shoulder. It was devoid of the body heat one expects from a human, and hard; tough and stony, unlike a human's hand.

"I picked her up on the train," he said, patting my shoulder. I tensed, my muscles stiffening as if they were being frozen. I chalked it up to my overactive worry drive. Max had always said that I could be scared stiff by anything, provided I had enough other concerns. My hand went to the broken watch in my pocket. Somehow, it gave me strength.

"H-hello, sir," I said to the rat, praying that it was a sir. I cautiously extended a hand, bracing myself for an awkward handshake.

"Please," said the sinister creature at the door, "Call me Gregory." He shook my hand. I felt a wash of warm relief at the living heat that radiated off of him. The warmth threw the chill of the air into perspective, and I shivered. "Oh, where are my manners? Come inside! I'll have a room ready for you in just a moment." He chuckled, turning around and bustling off to arrange things. Something in the air made me uneasy, some nearly imperceptible quality that stifled my rapid heartbeats like a winding cloth. My clay-faced companion tipped his hat to me.

"My card," he said, handing me a piece of thick off-white paper. On it in plain letters was the name 'Steven Haniwa' and nothing else. He trundled off towards a far door I assumed led to the actual hotel, leaving me to explore my surroundings.

The lobby looked normal, for the most part; a comfortably sized room with a dark wooden desk dominating over half of it. On the desk was a leather-bound book, easily the size of a coffee table and twice as thick. It could probably break a bone if dropped, I thought, carefully inspecting it. The red leather of the cover and spine were smooth, almost warm to the touch, and inviting golden script spelled out the words: Guest Book. So intriguing, so unusual was the bloodred tome, that I felt like I had to touch it… open it… read it… steal it…

"Don't touch that!" Gregory shouted, his unfocused eyes wild. Still dazed, I drew my hand away from the book.

"But… why?" My voice sounded almost whiny.

"That book contains many secrets, my dear. They are not for you." I cast a longing glance at the book as Gregory dragged me away, through a nondescript door and into an impossibly long hallway. He led the way, a candle in hand. I followed. There were so many doors, too many doors. I lost count by seventeen.

We arrived at a room I assumed was where I would stay. Gregory withdrew a ring of keys from his coat pocket and unlocked the door. He darted in ahead of me, preforming a quick scan of the room while I tagged along behind him, still disoriented from my ordeal with the guest book. I sat down on the bed, which gave a worrying creak. Gregory placed my room key in the palm of my hand and closed my stiff, sweaty fingers around it.

"If you ever need anything, the information desk is always open." He chuckled lightly and left the room, trailing a smell of mothballs behind him. I sighed. I got up and hung my coat on the back of a chair when I remembered the broken watch. I took it out and flopped onto the bed, staring at the lopsided circle of shattered glass. It reminded me of Max. I stuffed it into the pocket of my work slacks for safekeeping and tried to fall asleep. Worries invaded the edges of my mind. What if, when I got home the next day, something awful had happened to Max, or to Chloe? I squeezed the watch with every ounce of my energy and silently wept myself to sleep.

_I'm at the police station. Max isn't there, and I'm scared. I have nothing to hold, no one to whisper encouragement into my ear. I start to sweat. An officer asks if I'm alright._

_"I'm fine," I hear myself say. I am not fine, by any means. The officer takes a sip of coffee._

_"So, ma'am, can you explain to me what you were doing on the afternoon of the 16th?" What? I wasn't doing anything. I'm innocent. I didn't do it, I'm innocent, I'm fine._

_"You're lying to yourself."_

I woke up covered in sweat. Even through the addled film of drowsiness, I can tell that it is still night. I silently wish I hadn't broken my watch. I try to drift off again, but I just can't do it. I keep thinking about the voice in my dream.

_"You're lying to yourself."_

Somehow, I can't remember why I was at the police station. I get out of bed to take a walk, clear my mind. I hear a plaintive wail coming from somewhere, a frantic shrieking that chills my soul. It sounds like a cry for help, so I run towards the source of the sound. As I run, I get a feeling that I'm somehow running out of time.

_"Run, run, run, before it's too late… there are lives at risk, my dear…"_


	3. The Second Night: A Prisoner's Advice

The unearthly wailing was emanating from a door further down the hall. When I arrived at it, I noticed immediately that it was different from the others. It was a steel cell door, like something you would find in a prison. The caterwauling from the room within made the metal shiver like a tuning fork. I placed my hand on the door cautiously, testing the padlock and chain which held it shut.

"Hello?" I called softly. The screams turned to sobs, which faded into sniffles, which disappeared with the words,

"It isn't locked, you know." The speaker sounded like a child. I opened the door and stepped inside, making my steps as light as I could. I nudged something with my shoe by mistake, and produced a metallic rattle.

In the strip of buttery light from the corridor, a rusty chain dully glinted. I gave a little hiccupy gasp. My eyes followed the chain to the far right corner of the stone cell, where, in the weak moonlight that leaked from a tiny barred window too high up to look out of, a small figure crouched. The dim light illuminated a vaguely catlike face, with red eyes smoldering from the shadows like twin coals.

"How long have you been here?" it asked.

"I just arrived this evening," I said, feeling apprehension bubble up inside of me like a geyser waiting to blow.

"In the morning," said the prisoner, "Leave this place and never come back." My head felt rather spongy.

"I don't understand," I said. The red eyes gleamed.

"You will soon," their owner whispered. It began to approach me, but stopped with a hiss and scurried back to the corner.

"Oh, there you are, my dear! I was wondering why you weren't in your room." Gregory had somehow snuck up behind me without me noticing. I jumped. "Ah, I see you've made the acquaintance of Neko Zombie…" the rat's voice took on a mournful tone. "Be careful; he bites."

"Oh," I muttered, my tongue feeling numb in my mouth. "I was just going back to bed, and… I'll see you in the morning, I guess." Feeling sick, I darted off. Just as the metal door closed, I caught the little cat's eye, and noticed, with a cold rush of fear, that his mouth was sewn shut.

_Leave and never come back._

I woke up with a headache. My dreams had been disjointed and my sleep fitful. I looked around myself groggily, hoping to get my bearings. My hotel room looked the same as it had the night before, except that there was now a rope hanging from the ceiling just next to my bed. All weariness forgotten, I gave the rope an experimental tug. When nothing happened, I pulled it again. The painting just left of my bed, a dismal watercolor of a sleeping cat, swung up on hinges I hadn't noticed. Behind it was a human-sized passage, and peeking out of it was Gregory.

"Room service," he said. I giggled in spite of myself. "What could you possibly want so urgently at this hour of the morning?"

"Sorry," I apologized. "I just wanted to see what that rope did."

"Well, while I'm here, is there anything you need?" The innkeeper sounded amused.

"Can you tell me where- the dining room is?" I had wanted to ask him where I could check out, but thought the better of it.

"Go left until you reach a door that says 'dining room'. Anything else, my dear?"

"No thank you." Gregory nodded, and seemed about to leave, but turned around and assumed a more solemn tone.

"Oh, and do be careful," he said, closing the trapdoor behind him. "Some of our guests are rather easily offended."

I waved goodbye to the closed trapdoor, feeling a little silly. I straightened out my clothes and set off for the dining room.

I realized, with slight surprise, that I felt better than I had in weeks, maybe even months. How was it that I felt happier here, in this strange place where children were kept as prisoners and the most human thing was a man with no face? I entered the dining room with a spring in my step that hadn't been there since middle school. The dining room was only slightly larger than the lobby, with a dark wood floor and deep burgundy walls. I sat down at one of the small round two-seater tables, wiping sleep out of my eyes.

The far door, which I assumed led to the kitchen, swung open. Out of it stepped an enormous thing, dressed like a chef with a tall hat that ended in a candle. Its face was obscured, but its glowing red eyes were visible over its white collar. It had a knife as tall as itself slung over its shoulder, and pushed a cart of plates and covered tureens with its free hand. It glared at me and slammed my breakfast onto the table with a ferocious grunt.

"Eat up," it said in deep voice, stomping off. I obliged, watching it out of the corner of my eye. It did not move. I shuddered and blew on my meal (bacon, two eggs, over easy, a thick slice of glistening toast, all smelling heavenly) to cool it down. When I took the first bite, I realized that it had somehow remained as hot as the fires of hell. I forced my molten breakfast down, barely tasting it for the heat. My discomfort did not go unnoticed by the imposing chef. It slouched towards me dangerously. "Something wrong with my food?" it asked.

"N-no… it's delicious, j-just a little hot-" I was cut off by an enraged growl from the chef.

"A little hot?" it bellowed. "A LITTLE HOT?" I noticed with a fresh surge of horror that the colossal knife it held in one hand had dark stains around the blade. My head felt hot and my stomach turned. _Blood_. The knife came down on the table with a crack, slicing it clean in two. I shrieked. My aggressor leaned so close I could feel its hot breath on my face. All my organs clenched together into a single aching knot. I was cold and hot all at once. I heard a distant scream. As I collapsed, I realized that it was coming from me.

_Tell me, when was the last time you checked your watch?_


	4. The Third Night: Insult to Injury

"It's a miracle she survived that," I heard a thin, reedy voice saying from somewhere off to my left. _Survived what?_ I wondered. Then it became clear to me. The entire right side of my body felt raw. I released a small moan of pain. The source of the high voice moved closer to me. "How do you feel?" it asked.

"I feel like shit." It wasn't even hyperbole; I really did. My side ached with ten times the force of the average cramp, and my arm felt like it would never move again… and the headache… oh, god, the headache… like my brain had been removed without anesthetic and then put back in. I groaned. A cool hand felt my forehead and the high-voiced person spoke again.

"If you'd like to know, most of the skin along your arm is heavily lacerated, and most of the skin on your arm has been completely scraped away. The chef really did a number on you, you know. You're lucky to have lived."

"Can I have some water?" I asked. The doctor chuckled softly.

"Certainly. Catherine!" I saw the silhouette of second person approach. This one towered over the doctor and spoke in a lazy feminine drawl.

"Yes, Doctor?" She asked sweetly.

"Get the patient some water, nurse," the doctor snapped. "Do you really have to carry that thing around everywhere?" Catherine sniffed and left without answering. I lay in the bed, numb as a statue made of lead. My vision began to clear somewhat, and I wasn't even surprised to find that the doctor was a tiny person with blue patchwork skin; I had seen stranger since I arrived here. He seemed to notice my eyes on him and spun around in his chair. He had thick glasses that obscured his eyes, lank dark blue hair, and a screw protruding from the side of his head.

"Oh, you're awake," he remarked. "Good to see." I just lay there, unable to nod for the pain in my side.

"Doctor!" Catherine called. She entered the room with a graceful walk that must have been highly practiced. I took a double take, not because of her neatly pressed Red Cross nurse's uniform or carefully applied makeup, or even the fact that she could only be described as a giant pink lizard. It was the massive syringe she carried under one arm. I cringed just looking at it. She set a glass of water down on my bedside table and winked. "He's not giving you any trouble, I hope."

"No, ma'am," I managed, wishing I had enough strength to pick up the water.

"Please, call me Catherine," she purred, busying herself with propping me up on a pile of pillows and pressing the glass of life-saving water into my hand. I always hated when medical professionals tried to get you to call them by their first names. It just seemed wrong to me. I slowly and painfully brought the glass to my lips and scanned the room for an exit. Drinking water was like rain after a long dry spell, and I appreciated it as if for the first time. I noticed that my right side was wrapped in bloodstained bandages. The fingers that poked out of the gauze were scabbed and raw-looking; just seeing them hurt. I turned away and looked at the ceiling to distract myself. Before I knew it, I was asleep.

_I'm sitting on my bed, waiting for Max to get home and crying like a child. I feel like an idiot for getting angry. Those police officers were wrong; I would have remembered killing someone… I'm innocent. I'm not a murderer. I'm not._

_You're lying to yourself._

When I woke up, the room was dark. I felt more or less refreshed. Most of the pain in my side was gone, replaced by an uncomfortable itch. My nice work blouse was slightly damp and covered in dried blood. The bed around me was damp, too. I must have dropped my glass while I was asleep. My watch, and my memories of Max, was still in my pocket, more or less intact.

"Hello?" I called. "Catherine? Doctor?" No response. With a heavy head and a sense of throbbing pain, I climbed out of bed. I nearly fell, but quickly regained my balance. I started for the door, when someone stepped in front of me. It was the doctor.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked, his voice ragged. My heart jumped up into my throat.

"I'm- going to go the bathroom…" I lied. His stitched-up mouth twitched into the fake smile that looked like the expression a dentist would flash while telling you that you would need a root canal.

"You need rest."

"I'm fine," I insisted, once again lying through my teeth. The truth was, I had an uneasy feeling that had been chasing me ever since I woke up in the doctor's room. It was a feeling of impending doom.

"You need rest," the doctor repeated, his false cheer evaporating. He set one stitched hand on my shoulder and pinched my injured arm with the other. A flash of hot red pain filled my body. "See, the pain is coming back, isn't it? Please go lay down for a little while."

"You're insane," I said. "You're completely crazy. You're-" A latex glove slapped over my mouth, and a something cold touched my neck. A scalpel, I noticed with bile rising in my throat. He was going to kill me. _God_, I thought hysterically. _His tie is really ugly. _It was turquoise-and-lilac diagonal stripes, and I hated it. The scalpel ghosted over my sternum and pressed into my chest. A bead of blood stained my already filthy blouse.

"Doctor, what are you doing?" A frantic Catherine shrieked as she entered the room with a role of bandages in hand. I didn't even notice the syringe this time. "You promised not to hurt the patients anymore!" The doctor withdrew the scalpel from my chest.

"Oh, right," he said, sounding rather puzzled. He noticed the fresh blood on my shirt. "Sorry, did I do that?"

"Doctor," Catherine oozed, "Why don't you take a break?" The little blue-skinned man nodded and left the room, shaking his head and muttering his apologies to nothing.

"T-thank you, Catherine," I stammered. "Ugh. My head hurts."

"Go lie down, sweetheart. You'll be fine," Catherine said gently. I noticed a faint crack of uncertainty in her voice, but I ignored it. I sat down and watched the nurse pace back and forth. Faintly, I heard her whisper something that sounded like, "It's been so long… just this once, maybe… not enough to kill, just… no, I can't."

"Um, Catherine?"

"I'm so sorry," she said. Her smooth voice trembled. A forked purple tongue flickered in and out of her mouth. She raised her syringe, and I couldn't move. "Don't worry," said Catherine. "This won't hurt… much."

It hurt a lot.

I felt woozy, sick, and itchy. I guessed I had lost about a liter and a half, or otherwise I would be very, very dead. Catherine was gone. I scratched at my bandages. The rough fabric irritated the scabs and felt thoroughly unpleasant. I was not in a good mood. I turned the broken watch over in my hand and imagined that Max was sitting next to me with his hand on mine. Against my will, I started to cry. I had wasted a whole day here, getting scratched up and stabbed. Max would be so worried about me, oh god, oh no. I remembered what the cat had said. When I had asked him why I had to leave, he had said that I would understand soon.

"Is this what you meant?" I whispered, as much to him as to myself. "That I'm going to get hurt if I stay?" I couldn't leave, I thought dully. There was no point. I was just going to get hurt constantly. The universe was conspiring against me; I just knew it. I got up and went to my hotel room to think things over.

"My dear?" Gregory approached me with a sympathetic smile on his whiskered face. I returned the smile, albeit weakly. "Are you alright?" he asked. I shrugged. He patted me on the back. "I understand," he said. "But there is something you can learn from this." He began to walk away as I stared at the door of my room with confusion. "Being too passive can get you hurt."

_He's right, you know._

_He's always right._


	5. The Fourth Night: A Ride Home

_I am back in my apartment, sitting at the kitchen table. Max is making breakfast; omelets with mushrooms, my favorite thing to eat._

_"You okay, honey?" he asks. I nod. I've been quiet all day, and I know my silence worries him. _

_"I'm fine," I say. He smiles, relieved. _

_"That's good to hear." He flips the omelet expertly. I've always joked about having a boyfriend who could cook. He cooks and cleans; I go to work and buy him ingredients and cleaning products. He's the perfect housewife, honestly. _

_We eat our omelets and I kiss him goodbye. _

_"Stay safe," he calls as I pull on my anorak, keys between my teeth._

_"I will," I assure him, taking them out of my mouth to speak. "No need to worry."_

_"You know, that makes me-"_

_"-Worry about you more."_

_We're so close we finish each other's sentences._

When I woke up, I was sad but comfortable. The mountain range of scabs on my left arm was starting to flake, and I could feel myself returning to health already. I wasn't going to eat breakfast, I decided. I'd skip it, leave the hotel, and get lunch in the city. I put on my coat to hide the blood on my shirt. It didn't do much for the stains on my slacks, but it would do. With rising spirits, I set off for the lobby. I thought I saw someone come out of one of the rooms, and picked up the pace considerably.

Gregory was not at the desk. The guest book I saw on the first night was, however. I wondered what was written inside, what secrets were sandwiched between those blood red covers. Curious, I picked it up. _Yes, _I could almost hear it whispering. _Read me, read me!_

"It couldn't hurt," I said to myself, and opened it to the title page.

It was blank. So was the next page. The entire book was blank. I groaned. What happened to secrets that were not for me? What happened to dark, juicy gossip about the hotel's residents?

"Is that what you want?" a small voice piped up. "Very well, then." I jumped.

"Who said that?" I asked, opening the book cautiously. On the inside of the front cover was a small face, looking at me with big eyes.

"It was I," the book said. "I am the Story Book, the source of all knowledge in this world; within me you will find the secrets of your universe." I almost dropped it in shock. "Come now," it said sharply. "There is no need for fear.

The secrets you hide are all written here.

None can find them, for now I am yours.

Your search for all knowledge has set your course." I blinked.

"You're not serious."

"I am," the book said. "Hurry, hurry, hide me! That rotten rat is back!" I took the book's advice and tucked it into my coat. I felt something odd: Story Book was shrinking in my hands, shrinking down to be just the right size to tuck into my pocket. I did that just as Gregory strolled into the room.

"What have you there, my dear?" he wanted to know.

"Nothing," I bluffed. "Just my subway map. I found it- in my pocket. I was putting it back."

"You're not leaving, are you?" he asked, taking a seat behind the desk.

"I am," I said. "My boyfriend is probably really worried about me." Gregory looked at me oddly.

"Very well," he said, settling a pair of round spectacles on his snout. "You are always welcome at Gregory House."

"You're not going to ask for money, or… whatever?"

"No need," he said cryptically, smiling at me over his glasses. I waved good-bye uneasily and left the building, getting a shock at the cold, damp air outside. Story Book felt oddly warm in my pocket. I absently fiddled with my watch as I ventured out cautiously into the fog. Up ahead I could hear the sounds of a raucous party; breaking glass and yelling partygoers, paired with a buttery light that looked out of place among the twisted black trees and mossy headstones. As I went closer, I discovered a roaring bonfire with ragged figures jumping around it. I'm sorry to say that I let curiosity get the best of me. I tapped the nearest reveler on the shoulder and asked,

"Excuse me, do you know the way to the train station?"

The person turned around, and I tried very hard not to scream. I had spoken to a walking corpse; a skeleton with lank reddish hair clinging to its pale scalp and glowing points of amber light in its dark eye sockets.

"What train station, lady?" it leered. "Say, you got a nice bit of meat on them bones! Here, ah, come siddown and 'ave a drink-"

"I don't," I said quickly. "Drink, that is. I don't care for alcohol." The skeleton chattered its teeth in what must have been a laugh. A few more of the zombies were drawing nearer, clad in uniform rags and clutching bottles in various stages of emptiness.

"A live one, eh?" commented a particularly tipsy corpse. One of its fellows hit it over the head with a bottle, and its skull popped off and rolled till it bumped into a gravestone nearby and lay there laughing.

"Here," a skeleton offered. "Take a seat! Come on, we've been _dyin_' for some fresh-faced company!" Skeletal laughter.

"Well, really, I have to go," I said, perhaps a little too sharply.

"Aw, come on, lady! You're _killin_' me!" I thought about Max. I heard a little voice pipe up from my pocket.

"Now would be a good time to run," said Story Book. And, as you can imagine, I did so. The zombies clamored behind me, shrieking for me to come back and party with them.

"Come on, lady! All we wanna do is take your flesh!" I put on an extra burst of speed.

"Aw, don't tell 'er that!" "Yeah, ya ruined the surprise!" I looked behind me to gauge the distance between the corpses and myself. It was not as large as I hoped. I faced forward and tore off once again. I staggered into a clearing and leaned against one of the black trees, panting heavily.

"Thanks, Story Book," I managed.

"You're welcome," the book answered (a little smugly, I thought). I sat down in the saturated grey soil and let a few sobs escape.

"This," I said just a bit too loudly, "Is hell." A twig snapped and my heart bumped up into my throat and my damp cheeks felt cold as ice.

"Hello?" a skeleton voice called out into the dark. "Are you out there?" A murmur of other voices sounded. I staggered to my feet, almost hyperventilating. I clutched the watch in one hand and the bite-sized Story Book in the other, but no encouragement came to me. A forest of pale, withered hands sprouted from behind the tree trunk I had been leaning against and pushed. Its roots stretched stubbornly and finally tore.

What happened next was like a scene out of a zombie movie. The tree crashed to the ground, where it was trampled my stumbling skeletons, all vying for the head of the formation. I ran blindly, not focusing on where I was going at all. I was so frantic for escape that I hardly noticed the car until its windshield was almost inches from my face. Two blinding headlights stared me down, the light obscuring my view of the driver. I read the dimly backlit sign on the car's roof. Taxi… just what I was looking for! I was about to call to the driver, but they beat me to it.

"Got yourself in a sticky situation, huh, Miss?" The voice was deep and friendly, with a heavy Brooklyn accent. "Here, hop in!" The backseat door opened of its own accord, and I stumbled through it, not wanting to argue. I hit the upholstery with a smack. The door slammed behind me. The taxi driver stomped on the gas so hard that the car actually jumped into the air before careening away from the mob of zombies. We narrowly avoided several collisions with lichen-covered headstones, and at one point, one of the mob climbed on top of the car and leered at us through the windshield. With a hysterical laugh, the driver activated the windshield wipers and swept it away. It went flying, hit a tree, and burst into pieces. I choked out a slightly horrified giggle of my own, and reached into my pocket to see if Story Book was safe and sound, which it was. After a few moments of silence, I looked out the rear window and sighed with relief.

"I think we lost them," I told the driver.

"Phew, good thing, too. My engine wasn't made for high-speed chasing." His wording was a little odd, but I assumed that taxi drivers were more or less one with the machine. However, come to think of it, even when I looked through the Plexiglas partition, I couldn't see the driver at all. Then, my seatbelt fastened itself. I took a heavy, rattling breath. Come to think of it, hadn't the taxi's headlights looked a little bit like eyes?

"You're a car," I said weakly. "A talking car."

"Your point, miss?" said the taxi, sounding a little put off. I slumped down in my seat.

"Never mind." My voice sounded small. I peered out the window, seeing nothing but the dark, twisted shapes of trees and endless fog. I looked at my splintered watch and realized just how tired I was.

_There's blood on the walls. _

_"Max?" I call into the empty room. There is no one there. And then-_

"Miss? This is your stop." Oh. I must have fallen asleep in the taxi, I thought with a lukewarm flush of embarrassment.

"Thanks," I said, jumping out of the car. I spotted a friendly face composed of two headlights and a car grill. I waved to it. The whole car rocked in an approximation of a cheerful nod and then peeled off at a rocket pace. I turned around, my eyes searching for a train station, but what I found was eerily familiar. I was standing outside of Gregory House. I was back where I started.

"Don't you know?" said Story Book. "Hell's Taxi has a terrible sense of direction! Every trip he takes comes back to Gregory House again."

_You should have known not to trust anyone, no matter how well meaning they are. I'm starting to get bored of you, my dear._

_Go on. Go inside. There's your fate. There's not much else in the world for you._

_Murderer._


End file.
